Mad World
by Oldach's Dream
Summary: Dean’s the brother constantly on the brink of death. Heart Attacks, car accidents. The reaper said it best: he’s living on borrowed time. It’s a little ironic really, because this story is about Sam.
1. No tomorrow, no tomorrow

By: Oldach's Dream

Rating: K+

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Summary: Dean's the brother constantly on the brink of death. Heart Attacks, car accidents. The reaper said it best; he's living on borrowed time. It's a little ironic really, because this story is about Sam.

* * *

Mad World

Chapter One: No tomorrow, no tomorrow

"You have many options," the young woman spoke cautiously - Sam couldn't blame her. "Mr. Paine, would you like to talk about those options, or… do you want me to call someone?"

"No." Sam snapped immediately, "Don't call anyone. Please. Not yet."

"Alright," she seemed a little taken aback by his outburst, but Sam really didn't care. Couldn't bring himself to care. "Then…do you need a moment?"

"Options?" Sam croaked the word out after a few silent minutes that weren't really all that silent. A hospital was never silent – even if the crappy exam room he happened to be sitting in lacked conversation – the sounds of a hospital were always just…_there._

And just outside this room – it wasn't much larger than an impressive closet, actually – Sam could hear the buzz of a typical hospital setting. People talking in hushed tones, crying, screaming, medical tools clinking together, children balling, parent's soothing tones…Fuck, he hated hospitals.

Hospitals to him had always meant death, or serious injury, the life-changing -and entirely real, given what they did for a living - possibility that his brother or father might die. Dean's heart attack had been a nice and neat hospitalized package of _Well, we can make your last few weeks on earth comfortable, but there's no real luck. Have a nice day._ His coma had been just as grim, more so in reality, because his big brother hadn't even been awake to joke the pain away – to complain about hot nurses and the fabric softener teddy bear.

He'd flat-lined and Sam thought he was going to die. Then he came back and John had died instead. Dean had been angry for weeks, pissed at Sam, at everything they'd been hunting, at people that didn't deserve anger – at life in general. And while Sam had been frightened of his brother's grieving process… he could feel nothing short of relief.

His brother was alive.

And yes, in the process of making that happen, John Winchester had sacrificed himself. And that hurt like a bitch – every damn day – but Dean was alive. His brother was _alive_, living on borrowed time. Sam could see that in Dean's eyes. Every time they hunted, every time he took a risk, put himself in the direct line of fire – Sam could see Dean's thoughts plastered all over his face.

_I'm gonna die anyway, Sammy. Let me fight._

_I should have stayed dead. _He recalled those words with a shiver.

They had so many issues to work through, so much which had never been said – that _needed_ to be said. Sam had just falsely assumed that they'd have the time to work through it. Together.

"Yes," the woman continued, pulling Sam from his contemplations. "You have many options. There's in-patient treatment that could stop the spread of your tumor, possibly in it's tracks. With proper care and medication, you could live a perfectly normal life."

"Normal, huh?" Sam smirked, because wasn't that a hoot? He could have normal _now_.

"Yes," she didn't seem to understand the humor in that. "Or, there's a new radiology treatment that could prolong your life, for-"

"What about without?" Sam interrupted, not wanting to hear the _what ifs_ that didn't even apply to him. "Without treatment? If I just walk outta here with nothing? How long?"

"This tumor," she sighed. "It's located in the direct center of your brain, it's somehow managed to infect _every part_ of the brain that we use. And some we don't." She sighed and lowered her clipboard. "Frankly, Mr.-"

"Call me Sam." He commanded, sick of the fake name. He found it too ironic.

"Sam," her tone was gentle, almost motherish with concern. "This form of tumor…it's almost unprecedented. Frankly, none of the doctors here could give you any sort of projected time table for long you'll survive without treatment."

"But you said," Sam swallowed. "Didn't you say it was benign?" The youngest Winchester didn't know much about medical terminology, but he damn well knew what that meant.

"I said it _looks_ benign," she said. "It some of the M.R.I.'s we took. In others, it looks fully active. That's why we have to run more tests. Sam, we've never seen anything like this before."

Sam felt a palpable _whoosh _of knowledge surround him – had he been standing, it would have knocked him on his ass. Hallie had told him all this, he just…hadn't believed it.

"I told my brother I was going out for breakfast," he said to the pretty doctor, and didn't understand for a second why her eyes got hopeful.

"Do you want me to call him? I mean, having family-"

"No," Sam insisted again. "Don't call him. Just…tell me."

"Tell you what?" She sounded so desperate.

"Am I gonna die?"

* * *

A/N: Should I continue? 


	2. Bright and early for the daily races

Mad World

Chapter Two: Bright and early for the daily races

Three Weeks Ago

_Sleep with one eye open_

_Grippin' your pillow tight_

_Exit light_

_Enter night_

_Take my hand _

_We're off to Never-Never Land_

Sam found himself following along with the tune blasting through his brother's Impala. Following along easily, because he had long ago memorized every word to every song on every single one of Dean's cassette tapes. Because they _had _been his father's tapes first - for the most part, anyway; teenage Dean had defiantly made his fair share of contributions to the box - and Sam had grown up in this car.

Mullet rock had always been a part of that, part of their life together; hunting things, saving people. Their family business. Music had just faded into the background of that, became a comfort; something that Sam unknowingly relied on quite heavily. Almost as if the tunes set the stage for whatever adventure they happened to be on.

"So, you sure you got that address right?" Dean questioned, glancing over from the driver's seat to look at his brother - _again. _

"_Yes_," Sam sighed, exasperated. "And if you ask me again in another five minutes, the answer's still gonna be the same."

"Alright, geez," Dean placated. "Just wanted to make sure. Ya know, we are going _way _out of our way for this."

"I know," Sam breathed with less anger, mad at himself for being short tempered. "It's just... Ash came up with this name, someone who's supposed to know all about my visions. I mean... What are the chances this is for real?"

"I don't know," Dean admitted. "But I trust Ash. I think if he says this woman can help, then she can."

"Yeah," because Sam trusted Ash too, "But how? How could she possibly _know_? About the demon? My premonitions? I mean, don't you think that if there was someone out there with this knowledge that-" Sam stopped himself there, but continued quickly, before he caught Dean's attention. "-that we would know about her?"

_That dad would have known her. _

Was what he was going to say. But they hadn't really brought up the subject of their father since Dean's breakdown on the side of the road a couple weeks ago; and Sam wasn't about to upset the precious balance that had been restored between them.

And while it was obvious that Dean had realized what his little brother had meant by the statement, he too left it alone - just confirming Sam's belief that it was indeed too soon to reopen that wound.

"I don't know, Sam." Dean sounded exasperated now, "But we agreed it was worth checking into, so that's what we're gonna do. Okay?" His voice told the younger man quite clearly that, _yes_ that was the end of this particular conversation.

"Yeah," Sam whispered, giving in. "Okay." He was so goddamn frustrated; he had these freak powers and he didn't know what they meant, couldn't possibly even _contemplate _what they meant in the grand scheme of things.

Other than their tie to the demon and the other children like him. All Sam could see, all he really knew, was that these powers, the fact that he was a _freak_ - it was keeping him anchored to this world. To hunting and his brother.

And at the moment, that was okay, it's where he wanted to be, where he needed to be. But what if he _did _decide he wanted to go back to school? To leave this life for good? He hated his lack of option in the matter now - resented how things had changed.

Sighing again and leaning back in his seat, he decided not to think about it anymore, not now anyway. Perhaps this girl would give him a way out.

_Never mind that voice you heard _

_It's just the beasts under your bed_

_In your closet, in your head..._

A month from now, Sam wouldn't remember what song had been playing as they sped down that highway on their way to Maine, to visit one Hallie Morgan -supposed vision expert extraordinaire. He wouldn't recall the words he'd been mouthing along to silently, but if he did... He wouldn't fail to see the irony.

Now

Sam reentered their motel room with a takeout bag from Denny's and a tray holding two large coffee's, one of which was already half empty and he silently scolded himself for not getting a third like he'd been debating at the checkout counter.

"Dude," Dean's annoyed voice assaulted him before he even had a chance to lower the greasy bag onto the table. "Since when does it take three friggin' hours to grab breakfast?"

"Long lines," Sam responded with a shrug. He'd debated it on the car ride back from the hospital; what to tell his brother. He'd actually come up with this whole elaborate scenario, involving possessed silverware and angry pancakes.

Lucky for him, his bull-shit filter had kicked in before he'd had the chance to spew that particular cocktail of lies to his big brother. Not so luckily, he hadn't had a chance to come up with anything else, anything logical. He hoped shrugging it off as nothing would suffice.

"I got extra sausage," he pressed on, hoping to just not give his brother _time _to question his long absence. "So don't eat it all, alright?"

Dean huffed, annoyed, "Since when do I eat all the sausage?"

"Since you were twelve," Sam countered quickly, temporarily relieved. "So seriously, leave me some."

"Yeah, okay," he agreed, rolling his eyes. "You need it anyway, you friggin' skinny bastard."

The two Winchester's went about their bickering while unloading all the food containers on the top of the table in their makeshift kitchen. "I'm not skinny," Sam countered.

"Nah," Dean shrugged. "But you 'aint as big as me. You need some more muscle, man." He punctuated the assessment with a slight jab to the younger man's upper arm.

Sam laughed, "You know you're just overcompensating cause I'm taller than you."

Dean glared, and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, "How the fuck'd that happen anyway?" Then something that easily could have been, "Friggin' cruel twist of fate."

But all Sam did was smile genuinely at the affection laced through his brother's mumblings, as they sat down and began devouring their rather large breakfast of pancakes, hash browns and every other breakfast meat known to man - especially the sausage - which Sam had actually managed to get a large helping of.

"What're you grinning at?" Dean spoke with his mouth full of fried, syrupy, bread; and Sam couldn't find it in himself to be at all disgusted with his big brother. It was something that had always been a part of Dean's persona. His complete and utter lack of table manners.

"Nothin'" Sam dialed his lightheartedness back to a half-grin, which he hid as he went to take a bite of his own food.

Never in his life had sausage tasted so good. He chewed slowly, savoring the texture, inhaling its fragrance. He'd always love the fried food, but never, _never _had he truly enjoyed it so much.

See, usually, when he ate greasy sausage and artery clogging bacon, carb-loaded pancakes with sugary syrup, a part of his mind was always stuck on how unhealthy it was. How he was slowly killing himself with his food choices - but now... Now those thoughts were gone.

He refused to think about death - at least in association with himself. Death was a non-issue, it didn't exist.

And _holy fuck _- didn't life taste great?

He took another bite of the sausage and found that he loved this moment just a little bit more.

This was the essence of who he was, of what his life was all about; him and his brother, together at a cheap, nameless motel in the middle of nowhere. Hunting, saving people. The family business.

He couldn't imagine being anywhere else. The thought of going back to school and being normal, _faking _normal... It was laughable.

And as if reading his thoughts, Dean cleared his throat and broke though the silence of the room and the content-ness of Sam's musings.

"I think I found us a new gig," he began, and Sam nodded his acknowledgement. "There's been this rash of unexplained murders in New Jersey..." Dean went on and Sam listened.

This was his _life._

TBC...

* * *

Reviews would be great. 


	3. And I find it kinda funny

Mad World

Chapter Three: And I find it kinda funny

Now

Sam had ducked and rolled as taught to him at age four, he'd watched Dean aim and fire as he knew the elder man had been doing all his life - or at least all of Sam's. The brothers followed every textbook procedure down to a tee - as much so as was possible, anyway, considering there wasn't _actually _a textbook.

Yet they still found themselves in one of the stickiest situations they had ever encountered. So much for precise calculations.

Looking back on it now, Sam could see all the details much more clearly than he could at the time, having not bothered to register anything in his state of mild panic. They were in the middle of a wide open field, lush grass molding under their feet, tall crops of some unknown plant about a hundred yards to the left, right and behind them. The Impala was parked straight ahead, on the road that darkness had shadowed so thoroughly that it couldn't be seen any longer.

Dean was off to his right, running like hell. That could be expected though, when one was being chased by a werewolf. It was in that moment, that timeless moment of seeing Dean weaponless and being honed in on by a soulless creature of the night, that Sam had made his decision.

A few hours later in a rundown motel in the middle of nowhere New Jersey, he was still hearing about it.

"Seriously, Sammy," Dean sighed, sounded aggravated, impatient, pissed off and scared to death -if you really knew how to listen to him - all at the same time. He slapped some more antiseptic onto Sam's left forearm. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"That I _really _wanted matching arm wounds?" He tried the comical angle of the situation, hoping it would diffuse the tension. Dean just pulled gauze around his gash much harsher than necessary. "Hey, ow."

"Suck it up." His brother snapped, rolling his way through the bandage, Sam started calculating how long he'd be able to leave it on before his circulation got cut off. "You're the one who-"

"Saved your life?" Sam cut in, knowing there was no way they wouldn't be talking about this.

"I had it under control." The elder snapped again, with an angry, even mean, tone. This certainly had progressed much farther than the simple Salt & Burn case Sam had initially laid out for them.

"Yeah," Sam snorted, not hiding the sarcasm. "If I hadn't done what I did, I'd be talking to your body bag right now."

Something dangerous flashed through his brother's eyes, and Sam knew he'd hit a soft and vulnerable spot in the older man. "And _because _of what you did, I was about three inches away from talking to yours." But his voice was a little softer and when he spoke next, Sam heard the resignation there. "Come on, kiddo, who shots a werewolf with _rock salt_?"

And the little endearment Dean threw in - be it subconscious or not - assured Sam that all would be right with them by morning. With that knowledge he breathed a little easier, and went back to focusing on how his arm hurt like a bitch.

"I'm sorry." Sam told him, and meant it - a little bit, at least. "But I wasn't gonna watch you die."

Dean looked at him with sympathy and understanding. _I get it, little brother._ He said with his gaze, and his suddenly gentle hand on his arm. _I woulda done the same thing. We're okay. _

"Fine," he sighed aloud, and grabbed another bandage from the First Aid Kit. "But, really, _rock salt_?"

Sam laughed this time, finally seeing the true idiocy of his split-second decision. Shooting rock salt at a werewolf was pretty much the equivalent of chucking rocks at a really angry Rottweiler. Or rather, a pack of pissed off Rottweilers, on steroids, with rabies. All in all, not a brilliant idea.

"What else was I supposed to do?" Sam asked. "Fling myself at it?" Never would he admit to his brother that - had he been physically close enough - that probably would have been in the cards for a speedy course of action.

"Woulda been just as stupid," Dean muttered and ignored Sam's raised eyebrows. "You're just lucky as hell that that gun had silver bullets in it."

"_Lucky_?" Sam asked, astonished. "I bother to actually do _research_, and you call my precautions _lucky_?"

"You gotta admit," Dean argued, "the chances of there actually being a werewolf in New Jersey, well, can you see my doubt?"

"I told you that field was a paranormal magnet." Sam argued back, enjoying the familiarity of it. "And why wouldn't it be? A place where almost two dozen murders took place, it's gonna be a hot spot."

"I know." Dean agreed. "But, c'mon, werewolves? I haven't seen a werewolf since..." he trailed off, scrunching up his face in thought.

"1990," Sam filled in after a few seconds. "That cabin up in Colorado, when dad was out hunting...I don't know, something-"

"Poltergeist," Dean cut off, looking as if he'd suddenly recalled a long lost childhood memory. "You were only about eight-"

"Seven," Sam corrected automatically. "I spent my birthday that year in the hospital."

"That thing nearly sliced you clean in half." There was that pain in Dean's voice - the pain the younger brother would always pick up on when they were discussing injuries - Sam's injuries. He'd just blocked it out it until now. He knew that Dean had always felt responsible for him, since the fire all those years ago; like looking after his little brother was his job.

He'd just never paid attention to the raw _pain_ in his big brother's voice when he thought he'd failed at that. He'd never let himself go there, not on a conscious level. But he saw it now - his brother lived to protect him. Dean _lived_ to keep Sam _living._

Something strong fondled his heart as he swallowed a lump away from his throat.

God he was going to miss that.

"Yeah," Sam agreed, half smiling to keep those emotions away. "I've still got the scar. I used to tell Jessica that I got it crashing a motorcycle, just to impress her."

Dean didn't say anything, and Sam figured he was lost in his own memories - his own guilt. A few minutes later had them both pulled out of their separate, subconscious worlds as Dean patted Sam's, now bandaged, arm lightly and said, "You're good to go." Then a beat later, as Sam studied his new injury - silently relieved that his brother had rewrapped the gauze that had been threatening to cut off his blood flow - Dean continued. "Hey, speaking of, you hungry?"

Sam's head snapped up and Dean smirked, "I don't know about you, but nearly dying really takes a lot outta me."

Sam opened his mouth, shut it, then opened it again. "How is that _speaking of_?"

His brother shot him an affronted look, like he was insulted Sam didn't get whatever reference it was. "Come on, dude. Taco Bell? Not as memorable as that talking dog, I'll admit, but someone saying you're _good to go, _eighty somethin' times in one commercial _should _stick with ya."

"Yeah, alright." Sam agreed, happy that they were no longer discussing that long ago incident - he didn't particularly feel like being unnecessarily sad at the moment. "And, yeah, I am kinda hungry."

"Great," Dean clasped a hand on his shoulder as he got up off the bed he'd been sitting on while his brother worked on his arm. Sam had never paid it any mind before, but during - and immediately after - the care of flesh wounds, was one of the only times the brothers showed physical affection for one another.

A darkness loomed on the edge of Sam's subconscious, black and terrifying, threatening to overwhelm him. But he pushed it away. Far, far away, hoping - praying even - that it wouldn't intimidate him any longer. He just needed to get through this initial stage of grief - because as soon as he got to acceptance, everything would be okay again.

"So," the brothers moved to retrieve clean jackets out of their respective duffel bags, and Sam ignored reality some more. "Taco Bell? 'Cause now I want it."

"Not microwaved mini-mart food," Dean shrugged. "Sounds good to me."

"Great," Sam echoed his brother's earlier word quietly as they headed out into the night, making it to the Impala quickly.

Sam smiled, comforted by familiarity, as Dean revved her up, and automatically flicked a knob; he watched as her headlights sliced their way through the inky black world around them. He leaned back into the cold vinyl, feeling not so alone anymore.

Then 

_Portgrove, Maine_

"This place is a crap-shoot," Dean spoke none too quietly and Sam cringed, throwing his brother an irritated glance. "What?" The older man responded to the look. "It is."

"Just knock." Sam demanded, less interested in the junkyard that made up the front yard of the tiny shack that bore Hallie Morgan's address. He didn't care if this woman lived in a paper bag on the side of the street, if she knew anything about Sam's powers, that was all he was interested in.

Dean - having gotten no response to his first couple knocks, tried again, opening the screen door to bang solely on the wood of the front door. "Shit," he cursed loudly and suddenly. The front screen door had come off its hinges when Dean had tugged on it; he now looked like a missing prop from a surreal movie set - just standing there, holding a door that was no longer attached to anything.

"That'll make a great first impression." Sam said sarcastically, looking at Dean with disapproval.

"Shut up, Sammy," His big brother mumbled, adding some obscurities under his breath as he placed the detached screen door to his right, propping it against a wall that was half an ugly green color and half a hideous maroon shade - you could see where the siding had been painted over several times. The outside of the house had no porch, only overgrown grass and what might, at one point, have been a welcome mat where the brothers waited impatiently.

Sam was debating whether or not to go in search of a back door, when the front one burst open. Dean was startled, his whole attention being taken up by grumbling about - or to, it wasn't quite clear - Sam, while simultaneously fiddling with the hinges he'd broken.

A woman had opened the door, poking her head out only enough to speak to them, remaining mostly in her home, and Sam studied her curiously. She was young, somewhere in-between Sam and Dean's age - but she could easily pass for ten or twenty years older than that, the lines on her face tracing a trying life. She was tall and slender, but her list of positive attributes ended right about there.

She had dark hair that was long and matted - not dirty, exactly, just not taken care of, like she'd taken a shower without combing it out every day for the past year or so - pieces of it strewn over her shoulders, falling a little past her chest. Her skin had that overly golden, 'I spent a few too many hours out in the sun' look about it.

Dean, having been thrown off by her appearance, immediately flashed his shit-eatin' grin; his natural defense mechanism when dealing with strangers "Hi there," he spoke cheerfully, Sam stayed silent. "We're looking for Hallie. Hallie Morgan. She around?"

The woman's eyes moved from Dean to Sam, slowly scanning both of them, as if checking for threats, before her gaze landed on Dean's, ah, _mishap_ in the corner - and that's where it stayed.

"Yeah," Dean finally spoke. "Had a little, um, your door..." he looked up and she met his eyes. "Ah, I'll pay for that." He finished lamely.

She nodded before looking away again. There was something about her eyes - Sam couldn't tell for sure what color they were from where she was standing still partially shadowed in her home, but they looked gray - they seemed to see everything. _Through _everything, more like. It was eerie.

"Your car?" Her voice was neutral as she gestured towards the Impala. Dean nodded, looking apprehensive. "Can I have it?" Dean raised his eyebrows, and Sam studied both his brother and this girl closely.

"Bad deja-vu," was all he said, and Sam breathed a silent sigh of relief. If this woman was psychic, she certainly didn't have that nifty mind control power.

"If you're not gonna give me the car," she snapped, irritated, "then I really don't think we got anything to discuss."

She tried to shut the door, but Dean put out a hand to stop it. "So you're Hallie Morgan," he inferred, still trying to sound friendly. "Look, someone gave us your name, said you might be able-"

"Who?" She cut off, leaving Dean to sputter slightly over a few words. "Who told you to come here?"

"Ash," Dean answered questioningly after a beat.

"Ash what?"

The brothers exchanged a sudden glance and a silent _huh, never thought about that _passed between them. Ash didn't need a last name, as far as they were concerned.

"Good question," Dean admitted, smiling hopefully at Hallie.

"I know a couple Ash's," she shook her head. "I'm not in the habit of trustin' people when I don't know where they came from."

She went to close the door again, but Dean's arm remained steady. "Ash from the Roadhouse?" He tried.

She seemed to consider it for a moment, before speaking again. Her voice always stayed the same, never bending or contorting to fit any particular emotion - it was almost as unnerving as her eyes. Like she had no soul.

Finally, she nodded, and said. "Whaddya want?"

"Information." Dean tried to remain completely factual, but he kept stealing glances at his younger sibling. Sam found it off-putting. _Yeah,_ he wanted to shout, _I'm a fucking freak. Get over it._ "About...about psychics."

He was always so hesitant when dispensing information about his brother's abilities. Sam knew logically it was to protect him - protect them - against the people in the supernatural hunting world, who wouldn't accept this truth. But a part of the younger man - an insecure part that should have died with the emergence of adulthood, but he kept well hidden nonetheless - believed it was because Dean was embarrassed by him. Ashamed that he was such a freak.

She shook her head back and forth slowly, expression still remaining stoic. "Wrong person," she mumbled.

"Look, we drove a long way-"

"Leave," she cut off immediately. "Get outta here 'fore I call the cops."

"We just want your help," Sam finally spoke up. "Not even to _do _anything, we just wanna _talk _to you."

Still facing Dean, she repeated, "Leave."

Dean looked helpless, exchanging another glance with Sam, before the younger man looked back up at Hallie. And that's when he heard it.

_Come back without him. _

It was Hallie's voice, only Sam was looking right at her, and her lips weren't moving. She was just standing there, looking mildly annoyed that Dean was preventing her from closing her door.

"Ash said-" Dean began, and Sam was sure he said more, but his voice got blocked out for the younger man. He heard only...and he'd hoped this was one phrase he would never have to use... But he heard only, the voice in his head.

_Come back tonight without him, Sam. If you want the truth._

Dean's voice faded back in as her's ceased. "Just think about it, alright? We'll come back tomorrow."

It was his brother's tugging on his arm that finally broke him out of his post-traumatic, mind-raped state. Now he knew how Dean felt last week when _his _head had been invaded.

"C'mon, Sammy," he mumbled, obviously thinking his brother's distress was that of a different sort.

Sam let himself be led away, blinking hard to regain some handle on this new reality. This new truth of someone being able to inject thoughts into his head. It didn't freak him out as much as he thought it should, but nothing really did these days anyhow. So he just followed Dean, trying to decide how best to start the conversation in which he would explain to his brother Hallie Morgan's very personalized invitation.

They were at the Impala when Sam heard her one last time, he shivered slightly as a feeling of dread washed through him at her words.

_I'll tell you the truth, Sam. _

TBC...


	4. I find it hard to take

Mad World

Chapter Four: I find it hard to take

In the end, Sam listened to that inner little brother voice - the one that never truly left his subconscious - and decided to just not tell Dean that he was going to see Hallie again.

Because, the way he and that little voice figured it, these visions were his. His concern, his burden, and he was the one who needed to get information about them. Whatever he learned from this girl, he'd share it with Dean when he got back.

So, flawless logic in place, he'd waited until later that night, when he was positive Dean was asleep. He'd climbed out of bed, making sure not to ruffle the sheets and blanket, knowing the most minute sound would wake the slumbering man. He'd tugged on a jacket, and treaded to the front door lightly, grabbing his shoes to put on once he got outside.

He'd shut the motel door as silently as humanly possibly, sneaking one last glance at his big brother before he did so. Little did he know that that would be the last time he'd look at Dean and take his existence for granted.

Little did he know... Hallie Morgan would take that last bit of innocence away from him.

* * *

She was waiting for him when he got there. His watch read 3:33, when he glanced at it before knocking on her door, noting absently that the screen door was still propped up where Dean had left it.

She answered almost immediately and for a couple seconds they just stood there, staring at each other; her gray eyes filled to the brim with sadness. It was a completely different look than he'd gotten hours before with his brother, and Sam wished he could come up with a different word for it. But he couldn't. She just looked sad.

He raised his eyebrow then, getting confused, irritated and fed up with the situation as a whole. "You mind-raped me." He spoke first - probably not the best choice of words, but hey, he was truly Dean's brother.

She half smiled at him and opened the door invitingly. Sam entered after only a moment of hesitation, following her; he couldn't help but notice the inside of her home didn't seem to fare any better against the years than the outside.

They walked, and Sam took in peeling wallpaper, stacks of rotting newspapers and magazines, clothes strewn about all over. The overhead lights were dim, and the little light they did offer painted eerie shadows throughout the two main rooms they crossed in order to get to the kitchen.

Oddly cleaner than the rest of the house, the kitchen looked merely shabby, with out-of-date, yellow and green cabinets and a tiny wooden table squeezed in-between the counter and the swinging door. And un-level chairs, Sam noticed as he took a seat at one, following her unspoken invitation.

"You want some tea?" She asked, not yet taking a seat herself.

"You can read my mind," his words tinged with sarcasm, but lacked anger. "You tell me."

She sighed, finally plopping down into one of the four chairs that filled up the sides of the table. "Your fear's blocking almost everything," she said it calmly, as if reading someone's mind was the most normal thing in the world. And in Sam's world, the sad truth, was that it pretty much was.

"Tell me what you know about my visions." He ordered, not wanting to play any games.

"Why didn't you bring your brother?"

Sam sighed heavily then, realizing that she was holding all the cards, that she could make this conversation go at any pace she damn well pleased. That she had what Sam wanted and he'd have to play along to get it. "I thought you didn't want me to bring him. You said... I mean, your little message had singular pro-nouns only."

"But you wish he was here," she tilted her head. "You regret not telling him. You know you were being stubborn."

Damn, she was good, Sam thought wistfully. He hadn't even admitted those thoughts to himself yet. What he said aloud though, was, "Stay outta my head."

"Fine," she agreed, and although he hadn't noticed it before, at her words, a certain pressure lifted from him.

"Hey," he balked. "You were actually in..."

At those words, he felt the pressure return. It was a dull, hazy feeling that didn't really affect him, but now that he was looking for it, he could most defiantly sense. Then it was gone again, and he thought that perhaps its swift return had been a knee-jerk reaction on Hallie's part.

"Sorry," she mumbled, but Sam wasn't paying attention. His mind had drifted away, far away; to Missouri Moseley, in fact. The entire time he'd been in the presence of the older psychic, back in Kansas nearly a year ago, he'd felt that same feeling. That faded feeling of invasion.

It was there - now that he had knowledge of it, and could search his memories - other times as well. Like with that demon on the airplane, and the demon when it had possessed his father, and bloody Mary when his guilt over the nightmares had almost killed him. It was a stroke of something like revelation...That he could identify it now.

"Sam," she raised her voice, trying to get his attention back.

"That's... I could feel it." He confided in her. "I could feel you in my head."

"I know," she said, sounding not at all surprised. "You have a gift, Sam. A psychic ability, you should be able to sense it when other people like you are around."

"I don't exactly have a lot of practice with this," he admitted, starting to feel a certain bond with her that most certainly wasn't there hours - hell, seconds -earlier. "Do you?"

"My whole life, Sam," she sighed. "I've had my power my whole life."

"So you can help me," he was hopeful now, borderline excited, even. "You can tell me about my visions? About the demon and the other children?"

Her eyebrows shot to her hairline and Sam's heart plummeted. "What demon?"

"The one that has plans for people like us," he explained automatically, so used to telling this story that it was almost sad. "Your mom died in a fire when you were a baby, didn't she?"

Hallie's face remained baffled. "No, Sam." She said it slowly. "She didn't. She died of a brain tumor, when I was nine."

"A brain tumor?"

Hallie nodded, eyes sad again. "She was twenty-eight. My Aunt, her sister, died the same way when I was twelve. She was twenty-two. That's what I can tell you about Sam. That's why you're here."

"I don't..." Sam's mind scrambled fruitlessly, trying to keep up. "I don't understand. What do they...what does that have to do with the demon? With me?"

"They both had visions, Sam," And at those words, the earth stood still.

An eternity later, "They had visions just like you."

"I..."

"It skips a generation in my family," Hallie explained, taking no notice of Sam's faraway gaze. "My mom and her sister, my great-grandma. It's why I refuse to ever have kids, they'd have it, and they'd die."

"Have it?" Sam croaked. Not wanting to hear it, but absorbing it nonetheless.

"The burden of sight, second sight, premonitions." She listed different names for abilities - his abilities. "Seeing death before death happens. Driven by some higher force to act on that vision and trying to stop it from happening before it does. Putting yourself in danger every goddamn time."

"But I thought..." his eyes were unfocused, he was staring at a chip in the table, his vision blurring around it. "I thought the demon gave me, gave others, these powers. I thought..."

"I don't know anything about any demon," she continued with her explanation when it became obvious Sam wasn't going to finish his thought. "Maybe that's where you got it, maybe it's not; what I know about, though, are the visions themselves."

Sam didn't say anything, so she kept going. "My great-grandma cheated on her husband, and, you know, back then, that was like next to murder in their big ol' book of sins."

The youngest Winchester snorted half-heartedly.

"She got pregnant from the other guy, and her husband left her. She started having visions of him after my grandma was born. Apparently, he wasn't such a good guy. My great-grandma thought it was a curse from God. She turned her back on her own husband, and that drove him to rape and murder other women. And of course, it was all her fault." She bit the last bit sarcastically. "But she had a kid, and as messed up as the whole thing was, she still had to warn her about what would happen to her. The family curse."

"Only it didn't." Sam ventured, so lost in this long-ago world Hallie was creating that he could almost believe it was something that didn't affect him personally.

"No, my grandma had powers, only they were like mine. Not harmful."

"Harmful?"

"No one knows how my great-grandma died. Not officially. Medical technology not being what it is now, but it's not that hard to figure out." Hallie seemed tired; she rubbed her eyes, and took a deep breath. "My grandma didn't know, I mean, how could she? She died right after my Aunt Lilly turned eighteen; my mom was still living at home with them. Their visions had already started."

"I'm sorry about your mom," his voice was a little dazed, "And your Aunt. But I still don't understand what any of this-"

"Has to do with you?" She cut in and he nodded, feeling selfish.

"Because my mom and my Aunt refused to believe that they were alone. I mean, my grandma helped them, taught them what she could, but she didn't understand, ya know? She didn't have to deal with the pain of a vision, didn't have to see... And she died before they were old enough to really try and go figure it out." she shook her head, seemingly clearing it of certain thoughts, Sam imagined. "They were both having visions, and they both went hunting the things they saw. Paranormal things, Sam. I grew up with the occult, just like you. Only they didn't know what it all meant, what it was about, what their overall goal was. They didn't have a roadmap. They were fighting blindly. So they went looking for other psychics. And they found them. A lot of them, all over the world. But only a handful that had visions."

She took a deep breath. "You know what they all had in common, Sam?"

The youngest Winchester shook his head; the ball of dread sitting soundly in the pit of his stomach was growing steadily.

"They all died of a brain tumor."

They sat in echoing silence for what felt like a lifetime or more. A clock ticked in the background, Sam smelled old coffee and Hallie just waited, her eyes calm now that she'd gotten her story out.

"I...I don't have a brain tumor." He said it questioningly, pleadingly - the lost time between that statement and her death sentence, be it moments or hours, never acknowledged. "I can't have a...a friggin' brain tumor."

"I wish I could tell you something else, Sam. But that's the truth." Hallie sighed heavily. "That's what you came here for, isn't? The truth. And the truth is, you're going to die. And there's nothing you can do to stop it."

He was struck then with an undeniable sense of deja-vu, and wanted so badly to say watch me. But somehow, he knew that wouldn't be as effective now as it had been with Dean. Oh God...Dean.

"Our father just died." He blurted to Hallie, or rather, the blurred version of Hallie that he couldn't quite focus on. "Our dad just died. I can't die. Dean...Dean would be all alone and... I can't die."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, "I know it's horrible, but you should tell your brother. Tell Dean,"

Even the thought of Dean finding out about this had Sam pushing his chair away from the table. Away from Hallie, away from the idea of death, away from the truth. He was shaking his head back and forth slowly, in shock.

You have a brain tumor.

You're gonna die.

Dean's gonna be alone.

"No," Sam decided. "You're wrong. You're just...you're wrong."

If Hallie Morgan said anything else, Sam didn't hear it. He got up and bolted from the kitchen, from her whole house, as fast as he possibly could.

He ran all the way back to the motel he was sharing with his brother, focused on nothing except his pounding heart and rushing blood. Nothing else existed.

Because he couldn't be dying. After everything, after everyone...he could not be fucking dying.

* * *

Only he was.

He let it stew in the back of his mind all night - didn't sleep a wink, didn't even undress after he got back from Hallie's. Got out of bed at six and paced until Dean woke up. They went back to her crappy little house, per Dean's insistence, and found that the young woman was gone.

"Ah," Dean shrugged, "She didn't seem like she'd be much help anyway." His brother misinterpreted his silence and nudged his shoulder softly, "Don't worry 'bout it, Sammy. We'll figure this thing out."

And Sam just nodded.

He was going to die.

They went back to the motel after that. It was still early, so Sam volunteered to go get breakfast while Dean looked for their next gig.

"'Kay," his brother mumbled, falling back onto the bed, apparently having gotten up too early.

Sam's mind stayed unfocused, blurry with half-finished thoughts and unaccepted truths.

Then he'd passed a sign for a hospital and took the turn without thinking. He presented the lady at the front desk with the fake I.D. he happened to have on him and told her briefly what he wanted done.

Two hours later, he was sitting in that exam room talking to that pretty doctor, and he asked that inevitable question.

"Am I gonna die?"

She looked at him sadly. An eternity, his whole life, and thousands of others weaved together in her gaze. Dean's grief, innocent deaths, Sam's broken heart, even some relief, swam together and blended almost mystically in her blue-green eyes. A window to the soul, they said, and her soul was almost as sad as Hallie's had been.

"I'm sorry, Sam, but...yes, this diagnosis is terminal."

"Even if the tumor is benign?" He couldn't help but cover all his bases - all his chances - it was just his nature.

"Even if it is," she sighed. "It's in such a bad location-"

And Sam held up a hand to silence her then, because he didn't need to hear anymore.

"Would you like me to call someone now?" She asked.

"Just...can I have a moment?" He asked, sounding as pathetic as he could manage - as he felt.

She nodded, whispered, "Of course," and left the room immediately.

Sam did exactly what he told her he would do. He took exactly one moment and thought, I'm going to die.

Far from accepting it though, he simply pushed it away. He knew it was there, he did. He just didn't want it to be - so it wasn't.

He took his moment, then got up and left. Shrugged on his jacket and walked right out of the hospital. He didn't make eye contact with anyone, and no one stopped him, no one even noticed.

By the time he made it back to the Impala, he was an entirely different person.

* * *

A/N: Okay, the next chapter will pick back up with where the show was after the vision episode. I know exactly where this is going now, and it should only last another three or four chapters - roughly. Angst is waiting just around the bend.


	5. The dreams in which I’m dying

A/N: I just wanted to say a quick Thank You to all of those who have been kind enough to review this story - I know my updates are on the slow side, and I apologize for that; but I do try to make the chapters long, to make up for it. I hope it's worth the wait.

Also, I've taken some liberties as far as the timeline of the show is concerned. Spaced some things out, added things here and there. I think it all fits together, if you just ignore how long Sam's had his cast - In my defense though, the show's doing the same thing. Damn Jared Padalecki for getting hurt in real lifeJ

Thanks again, now on to the story...

Mad World

Chapter Five: The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had

_The scene was typical enough._

_So typical, that Sam didn't even notice he was dreaming at first. But he was nothing if not Champion of the Nightmare World, so it didn't take long for it to click. _

_He _was _dreaming. _

_He was standing next to a grave, shovel slung carelessly over his shoulder - and honestly, that was his first tip off. He had no cast, no bandages, and he was pretty damn sure that if he were to stop and take stock, he wouldn't have any cuts or bruises either. So yeah, this was defiantly a dream._

_Then he looked down at the grave he was standing at - and it became a nightmare. _

Jessica Lee Moore

_Sam saw her smiling picture - as bright and alive as the day she died - and he turned away, lost in mockingly familiar grief. He tried for a few seconds to fight against the nightmare, to wake up. He pulled jerkily at the proverbial ropes his subconscious tied around him, but it was fruitless, so he gave up rather quickly._

_Residing himself to the fact that he was stuck there, at least for the moment, he looked around. Anywhere except Jessica's headstone. That's when he saw, up ahead, a funeral already in progress, and he knew - with that inarguable nightmare knowledge - that he should be there. _

_And as soon as he accepted that knowledge, that's where he was. Despite the fact that the procession was all the way on the other side of the rather large graveyard, he was there in an instant. Nightmares are nifty like that._

_He saw Dean first. _

_Mostly because he happened to turn his head and be right in front of his brother, but also because of that face. _

_There were other people around them, many other people, but all Sam could see was his brother._

_He had that hard, emotionless mask of a face on and Sam instantly wanted to comfort him, make him talk about it. Whatever it was. Just as he'd done - to the best of his ability - after dad had died. As he always did, because that had been his role since childhood._

_To be the emotional one of the two, to keep his brother anchored to his feelings - no matter how hard he fought against it - to make sure he kept living. As more than just a breathing, eating, fighting machine. _

_Only now, he couldn't. He couldn't follow his strongest instinct and reach out to his big brother. He couldn't do it, because he wasn't really there._

_Desperate for knowledge, any sort of understanding as to what was going on, he looked up at the headstone that was the center of this large group's - and most importantly, his brother's - attention._

_And there, etched in hard stone -_

Sam Winchester

1983-2006

_He didn't want to believe it, but one glance at his brother had pretty much sold it. _

_They were at his funereal._

_He was dreaming his funereal._

_

* * *

_

Sam woke with a slight gasp, sitting up quickly in bed, eyes desperately devouring the scene around him.

"Dude," he heard his brother's groan from the motel bed next to him, and was grateful for the distraction. "What the-"

"It's nothing, Dean," Sam assured, trying to convince his own pounding heart of just that. "Go back to sleep."

"Nightmare?" He mumbled questioningly, already following Sam's orders, half escaping back into the wonderful world of subconscious bliss.

"Yeah," he admitted easily, because after a year on the road with his brother - after all the grief, heartache, awkwardness, fighting and loss - familiarity had kick in, and things had gotten back to some semblance of _right _between them. And Sam could confide the presence of nighttime demons to his big brother again.

"Bad?" He seemed slightly more awake, but he'd laid his head back down and his eyes remained closed. That was typical of Dean, though, avoid as many awkward moments as humanly possible.

"Nah," Sam shook his head, "I'm good."

There was a long pause, in which Dean stayed so silent and still, that Sam _almost _believed he'd drifted back off to sleep. But he knew the elder man, had known him as his protector since birth - and knew he was awake and listening for the slightest sound of distress - so Sam kept his breathing purposely steady.

"Alright," Dean agreed after a while of silent contemplation. "Go back to sleep."

"Sure," Sam agreed, watching Dean roll over and slipped his arm under his pillow; the younger man knew that his fingers were closing around the handle of his hunting knife - his security blanket. "Just gotta take a leak," he mumbled.

He got up; throwing the twisted together sheet and blanket off him, beyond glad that Dean was unable to see how badly he was shaking.

He'd closed the door to the bathroom, locking it behind him, before he allowed himself a pseudo-therapeutic deep breath. He couldn't stop his breathing from coming out raspy as he ran a hand through his shaggy hair tiredly, turning around and starting up the cold water. He tried not to, but he couldn't help catching his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

It was a good thing his brother hadn't been able to get a good look at him in the dark - Dean would have been suspicious in an instant. His skin was pale, the shadows under his eyes standing out almost frighteningly.

There were steady beads of sweat on his forehead and Sam dipped his head down, splashing his face with the ice-cold tap water.

It wasn't a vision. It wasn't a vision. It _couldn't _have been a vision.

It was a nightmare.

Sam had been living with the knowledge that he was going to die for over a week now. He'd been fighting down the terror of the possible impending symptoms that might go along with this illness.

The migraines, which the medical website he'd found promised would be the most excruciating he'd ever experienced. The memory loss, the muscle spasms, the loss of motor control.

He'd read all about it, but hadn't really _accepted _it yet. As far as he was concerned, it was happening to someone else, or it was happening to a different _him_, a _him _in some parallel dimension that _he _didn't have to be concerned with.

And he was okay with that denial - as messed up and illogical as it was - because he doubted he could deal with much more.

His subconscious obviously didn't agree, and those two parts of his mind were warring - thus, nightmare.

Not a vision.

Because Dean hadn't looked any older in his nightmare than he had yesterday - and Sam was damn sure that he wouldn't be dying anytime soon.

In fact, the way his impartial mind deduced it, hunting would take him out way before this tumor had a chance to. It wasn't his life expectancy he was worried about at all; it was those possible symptoms associated with this illness.

But still, the possibility of death must have been weighing heavily on his mind, without his consent or knowledge. Why else would he have such a nightmare?

It was a nightmare.

He glanced up at his reflection again, hoping beyond hope to convince himself of that truth. His eyes were haunted, though. Haunted by foreknowledge that he should not have been in possession of. Haunted by guilt, the thought of leaving his brother alone, after everything the older man had already lost.

They were haunted with denial, because he had not - refused - thus far, to accept the truth of what was happening to him.

He looked in the mirror and saw a young man's face. So open that you could see right into his bruised and battered soul.

Sam looked into that mirror, and he saw death.

* * *

A Few Days Later

They'd gone back to the Roadhouse, because what else could they do?

"Anything?" Ellen had asked as soon as they'd sauntered in late one evening, light from the setting sun following them in until Sam closed the door behind them and shadowed them all in smoky darkness.

"Oh yeah," Dean said, sounding enthused as he shrugged his jacket off and took a seat at the bar. "We passed the world's second largest ball of twine. And people wonder why we love our job so much."

Sam couldn't help but smirk at that.

"Well you were gone long enough," The older woman snapped, and Sam caught Jo smiling at the way Dean's playful expression disappeared at her mother's tone.

Dean was scared of Ellen. That knowledge alone was enough to put Sam in a better mood-make his headache seem less pronounced.

"We ran into one of our undead playmates," the older Winchester explained, with more somberness in his tone.

"Couple of 'em, actually," Sam took a swig from the beer bottle Jo presented him with gratefully - at least tomorrow, he could blame it on a hangover.

"Well, glad to see ya came out of it as cocky as ever," the cranky woman sneered after giving them a once over.

Dean just tipped his own beer bottle in her direction, a silent _thank you. _

"So what about that girl Ash told you about?" Jo was as impatient as her mom - and as direct too. She looked Dean straight in the eyes and raised her brows at his _How is that your business? _expression.

"It was a bust," Sam found himself lying easily, while his brother and Jo had their little silent conversation. "She didn't know anything."

"That's too bad," Ellen shook her head, "But Ash can't get 'em right every time. He'll keep lookin'."

Sam nodded but said nothing. He'd learned all he needed to know already, and hoped that Ash would never provide him with anything such as that ever again.

"In the mean time, though," Dean smiled at Jo, "Could we get some a that Whiskey?"

Glad he didn't have to ask for it himself, Sam simply nodded when Jo held up the shot glass in question. He saw Dean shoot him a confused glance after he downed the first shot and gestured for another, knowing his little brother wasn't much for hard liquor.

Sam just shrugged, and waited until Dean became thoroughly distracted by Jo before having another - Ellen was kind enough to leave the bottle on the counter next to them.

He didn't feel like thinking, didn't want to contemplate or dissect his own life; was glad that Dean had gone across the room and was now shooting darts with Jo.

The younger man did briefly wonder about that - Jo's relationship with his brother. What was going to come of that? Jo wasn't like any girl the Winchester's had ever encountered before, and Sam wasn't quite sure what to make of her.

She was as tough as Ellen, and Sam knew that loss had hardened her at a young age - a trait her and the brother's shared. But there was something big in her that was innocent too, and Sam didn't doubt that Ellen had kept her well sheltered after her father died.

Stories from the weathered hunters that drifted through here probably as close as she ever came to real action. There was something her eyes, her personality, that Sam recognized - something he himself had been a carrier of for such a long time.

A need to get away. To out run the life you were dealt.

Only with Sam, it had been a craving to escape the supernatural, live a normal and safe life. For Jo, he believed it was the exact opposite.

From his seat at the counter, Sam saw Jo laughing at something his brother had said, Dean was smirking and looking down, almost shyly. Sam hadn't seen the elder man act that way in a long while - so unreserved and carefree with a girl. With anyone, really, and Sam had missed that.

There was a growing fear though, the more he thought about it, that Jo was just using Dean, using him as a way to escape the protective environment that Ellen had created and trapped her in.

It wasn't something he wanted to believe, but he couldn't help but compare himself and the younger girl. When Sam was in her position...well, he would have done almost anything to get away.

He'd possessed a tunnel vision that had blinded him frighteningly.

He just prayed that Dean wouldn't get burned by that again.

* * *

TBC...

A/N: Thoughts?


	6. Going nowhere, going nowhere

Mad World

Chapter Six: Going nowhere, going nowhere

Sam had made the decision - to tell Dean the truth.

Somewhere in-between busting walls looking for the spirit of a pissed off serial killer, and watching his brother have a mild panic attack over leaving Jo alone and her getting captured.

Because Dean treated Jo... Well, Dean treated Jo a lot like he treated Sam. Or, rather, how he'd treated Sam before he'd left for Stanford - back when he was still trying to protect him from everything. Back when Sam was still kind of letting him.

It didn't exactly make him feel all warm and fuzzy inside, and he batted about the phrase _emotional substitution _more than once in his contemplations. He had no idea what went on in his big brother's head, but he could guess. He had to guess.

_I don't want to go back to school. I was a freak with a knife collection. _

Jo's words from that afternoon stayed in the back of his mind as he thought about it. There were so many connections - parallels to be made. And the one conclusion that Sam kept coming to with all of them was - _If I don't warn him now, it's going to kill him_.

So Sam was going to tell Dean.

As soon as this hunt was over.

Sam was going to tell his big brother that he was dying.

* * *

Sam sat a bar with a beer and a sour attitude.

He was more than a little pissed off at the women of the Roadhouse, and for so much more than anyone would ever know.

"We don't even know what happened," he tried to comfort his big brother, who was next to him and on his fourth or fifth beer. "Neither do they. For all any of us know it was him who messed up that gig - not dad. For all we know, it was no one's fault and whatever they were hunting just got the better of him."

"Maybe," Dean agreed lacklusterly, "But we're never gonna know," he took another swig of carbonated alcohol, sinking further and further into his inebriated depression.

"We could talk to them," Sam tried.

"You really see Ellen debating the what's and why's of this with us, Sammy?" Dean snorted, too close to shit-face drunk to hide his cynicism. Too far away from it to cut his little brother off completely - lest Sam provide the miracle solution.

"Alright," Sam sighed, agreeing easily, thinking of the stubborn woman, "But Jo..."

"Jo," Dean started, and there was lost emotion there that Sam couldn't place. "Jo loved her dad. She went hunting for him, to be close to him. She remembers..." he broke off, shaking his head, "I mean, can you imagine if dad had died when we were that young? And someone told us whose fault it was? What would we do, Sammy?"

And the younger brother could offer no rebuttal. Dean had cut the situation to the quick, stripping it of all its false hopes. Just as he always did. Just as he always would. Sam swallowed thickly.

"I'm sorry, man," he said heavily, when there was nothing else to say. And he pretended he was only talking about Jo.

"Yeah," Dean curved a little farther around his drink. "Well, people leave," he shrugged. "You want another beer?"

Sam of less than a month ago would have said, 'Nah,' and shrugged it off. He would have spent the rest of the night keeping an eye on Dean, dragging him out of the bar when he got too drunk, taking him back to the motel, and not mocking his hangover in the morning.

Because his brother's heart had been broken yet again, and he was dealing with that pain exactly how he'd been taught to.

But this Sam - this new Sam with a giant secret and a thirst for life - this Sam was grieving too. Because he was going to tell his brother. He had just started planning the speech, considered it from every angle, debated every which way Dean might react. And he had been ready and prepared to deal with however he may have responded.

But now this night of grieving was about Dena's loss - not Sam's impending one.

So this Sam just smiled sadly and nodded, the lure of oblivion just too tantalizing to resist.

They got their bottles and - in a bittersweet motion - raised them, simultaneously clinking them together.

'Congratulations,' said that somehow muddled sound sarcastically,

'We lost another ali.' Said that first long swig.

'Jo, Ellen, Dad, Caleb, Pastor Jim, Jessica, Mom.' Their beers hit the counter with a thick thud. 'Everyone leaves. Everyone dies.'

They kept drinking, and that's all this Sam remembers.

-------------------

A/N: Shorter than usual, I know - sorry. But I want to get this where it's going, and I feel like it's dragging a bit much. Or maybe it's not - maybe I'm just anxious to get back to the other two stories I'm writing. You tell me.


	7. All around me are familiar faces

Mad World

Chapter Seven: All around me are familiar faces

_He was dreaming again._

_It was the same scene, the same feelings; weight of the shovel in his hands, hard ground beneath his feet. Despair, as his big brother did nothing to hide his grief from the world - and helplessness as Sam could do nothing but watch._

_More of the details came into focus this time. He saw more of the people. _

_Old friends from college. Becky and Zach sat a few seats back from Dean, teary eyes and tired looking. _

_Sam saw his freshman roommate in a back row. He and Sam had hated each other mutually - but in a way that made each of their respective first years away from home much more bearable. Sam realized with a pang that, had the situations been reversed, he probably would have attended his funereal as well._

_Then he remembered he was dreaming._

_That knowledge was lost quickly as he saw more familiar faces - an old professor. His mentor, actually._

_Missouri. _

_Joshua. _

_Mac. _

_A few other of dad's remaining hunting buddies that he and his brother had known as children._

_Jo sat in the chair next to Dean, he finally noticed. The girl was paying more attention to the elder hunter that to his ongoing funeral procession, but Sam didn't mind. Was glad for it, in fact - because at least Dean was being looked after by someone. _

_Perhaps after his death, Jo and Ellen would keep Dean afloat. Keep him breathing._

_None of this shocked him now, none of it anything more than a few dreamy feelings of familiarity and truth._

_Until he looked up at the front row._

_There sat his mother and father - in perfect corporal form, hands twined together, looking at their youngest son's casket with sad acceptance. Dad didn't look any older than he had the day he'd died. And mom… Mom looked just like she did in every picture Sam had ever seen. Just like she had in Kansas. Beautiful._

_Sam's head snapped back to his brother at once, to see if Dean too bore witness to this phenomenon. Yet his brother's gaze remained steadily fixed to the Priest or Pastor, or whomever the man in black robes standing behind his coffin was._

_He was speaking, that man was, but Sam couldn't make out the words - just accepted the noise they produced as a steady background hum. Choosing not to focus on him, not to hear._

_For the first time in his life - that he had conscious memory of - his family was all together. Shattered in ways not even this nightmare could comprehend, but together._

_And Sam was still holding onto that when he woken up._

_------------_

His life had been intertwining moments of good and bad. Denial and fake acceptance. He'd decided at one point, a few days after they'd been arrested, to never tell Dean the truth - to keep it away from his brother until the autopsy reports came back - but he'd woken up that night so scared and desperate, that he'd actually had a panic attack.

Full blown, with closing throat, tunnel vision and a panicked big brother.

Dean ended up having to calm him down, soothing him like he hadn't since they were children. It was a colossal chick-flick moment, as they had ended up squeezed together in the same bed all night.

Dean hadn't even tried to diffuse it, either. He'd wanted to talk. Outright demanded it, in fact - but Sam had put it off.

He knew after that incident, though, without question, that he would _have _to tell Dean. Now it was just a matter of when.

Then they had discovered the crossroads.

------------

When Sam had turned off the music, Dean had been silent.

When Sam had started screaming, his anger coming out in bursts that could have shaken the earth, Dean set his face and remained quiet.

When Sam started in on dad, well, he didn't get too far.

"Oh, you know what, Sammy?!" Dean finally shouted, "I'm sick and tired of your fucking shit."

"My shit?!" Sam screamed ludicrously.

"Yeah," Dean responded affirmatively, quickly, but barely had time to shout the syllable before Sam was on him again.

"You were gonna make a deal with the _devil _Dean! With a fucking demon!" The youngest remaining Winchester was seeing red. He could never, in his whole fucking life, recall _ever _being so utterly pissed about anything. He wanted to shout - was shouting. He wanted to hit something, to hit his brother. To _force _Dean to understand.

"No I wasn't!" Dean defended.

Words couldn't convey it, how angry Sam was at the moment. He wasn't thinking about his impending death - not really. His mind was lost in the thousand or so possible scenarios that had sprung to life since they'd left the crossroads.

A thousand or so possible scenarios that all had Sam living out the rest of his life alone. _Alone. _by himself, with no one.

Without Dean.

Tunnel vision clouded with memories, mixed with fragments of dreams, weighed down by inalterable truth - his breathing sped up and the world unfocused. It was too much for him to hold onto, too much for any one person to handle.

Just like his brother after dad's death - only shorter lived.

Dean had beat the crap out of the Impala, had decapitated a vampire ruthlessly, had punched Sam and buddied up with Gordon. Found any excuse to fight and blamed innocent people.

And now Sam understood why. He connected with his big brother - through that anger that was really quite sad when you thought about it logically - because it only meant death and pain. In the same cycle he'd grown up with.

So when his anger finally did _burst_ - he was relieved.

He was Dean with that crowbar.

His father with his vengeance for the demon.

He was a psychic freak with a message to send and an unrelenting anger to unleash.

The passenger side of the Impala shattered.

Just…exploded, raining Sam with small bits of glass, non one piece larger than his thumbnail. Because that's ho angry he was, that's how much he needed Dean to understand.

"_What the fuck?!" _Dean shouted, head snapping to his brother; covered in bits of glass, his breathing sporadic. Dean sounded scared. "What the _fucking hell _was that?"

But Sam couldn't respond, he just clenched his teeth and fought himself, reigning in the rest of his temper, because he didn't know what he might destroy next.

Dean pulled the Impala to the side of the road immediately, killing the engine and turning to face his brother. Sam could only see him out of the corner of his eye, but he knew Dean too well. He knew what face his brother was sporting.

"What was that?" He asked again, his voice a more controlled level of desperate. "_Sam_."

"Did you consider it, Dean?" Sam asked slowly, seeing nothing. "Did you seriously consider making a deal with the devil?"

It took Deana moment; mostly, Sam thought, because he was debating what was more dangerous; telling the truth and having Sam go off, or lying and getting the same result.

He spoke though - spoke the truth.

"Yes."

With one word, Dean changed everything.

He changed the entire foundation on which Sam had been basing his life. Not just for the last few months, but for his _entire _life.

Family was supposed to come above all else. Family was all there was. That's what Dean had taught him; that no matter how fucked up life got, no matter how many bad decisions you racked up, that was supposed to be the one inalterable truth. The one law that had no loopholes. _Family._

Then Sam wanted to cry, because Dean _hadn't _changed his policy, hadn't become a hypocrite and went against his lifelong philosophy.

He'd chosen his family.

"It's dad." Sam muttered, only half recognizing that he'd said it aloud.

'What?" Dean sounded like he had tears in his eyes, but Sam didn't know. wouldn't look at him.

"When we were kids," Sam's mind saw so many events; instances in which he thought only _he _could see the true side of his brother. "You always… I mean, me and dad fought so much.

"Yeah…" his breathing was hitched, the word confused, frightened.

"You never really chose sides. I mean, I don't know how you did it, but you never turned on either of us." Sam felt long ago shame flare up, but pushed it back down. "Even when we asked you to."

"I'm Swiss, dude." Dean's childhood mantra was brought back, and for a moment, Sam was fifteen, John was shouting, and Dean was sitting at the kitchen table, watching cartoons.

Dean could always do that - if only for a split second.

Dean could make him remember.

"I always thought, if it ever came down to it…" Sam's throat threatened to close, but he pushed on, focusing intentionally on that part of his mind that had destroyed the window to the Impala, making sure it didn't rise and concur again. "I always thought you'd choose me."

"Sammy," the word contained something beyond raw pain. Something new and undefined.

"I was wrong."

"Sam,"

"I should have never been born, Dean," he explained with sudden understanding. "I _caused _this. _All _this. And you know it. My powers brought the demon. Mom and Jessica died because of me. Dad-"

"Stop it, Sam." But he was so beyond hearing now.

"If mom hadn't died, dad wouldn't have started hunting, he wouldn't be dead. You wouldn't be contemplating selling your soul to a demon to get him back." Sam shook his head. "It's a chain reaction. It's a chain reaction that I started. I should have never-"

Dean reached over in a swift movement and fisted the front of Sam's shirt, yanking the younger man forward, swiveling his body slightly in Dean's direction, before slamming him back into the corner of the seat, half up against the door, crunching stray bits of glass as he went. There wasn't much force behind the rough treatment, but it certainly got Sam's attention.

"Shut up. Shut up!"

"Why?" Sam screamed back, with more anger than was safe. "It's true! Everything would be alright if I-"

"Stop it, Sam!" And _that's _when he saw the tears in Dean's eyes. Close to overflowing in his green orbs, and Sam didn't know how to respond to them. He never had. "_Please." _

He'd never heard Dean beg before. Never.

So he did. He stopped. Trapped in that same position, Dean gripping his shirt, facing him with emotion that he couldn't…

"I would choose you, Sam." Dean balled his fist tighter and squeezed his eyes shut for a fraction or two of a second. "Is that what you want to hear?" He was desperate. "I would choose you. Over anything."

"Except dad."

"No," Dean sounded firmer, the tears were still there, but so was something else. Something strong. Something that made Dean, _Dean_. Something that no one - be it supernatural or human, family friend or foe - had ever been able to tangle with and come out of successfully.

"Ten years isn't anything, Dean." Sam pointed out, fighting instinctually. "You would have died. What do you call that, if not picking dad over me?"

"That's not, _not _choosing you," Dean bit, "It's not choosing myself."

"It's choosing to leave. To give up. To not fight." It was coming out now, the anger, the regret, the sorrow. "How could you do that? How could you decide to die? How…"

"It didn't happen, Sammy." Dean reminded harshly. "I didn't do anything. I didn't _choose_ anything. I'm here. I'm right here."

"But you don't want to be."

"Yes I do," he grasped desperately at fading straws. "I do."

Sam focused his gaze out the windshield, at the dark, at nothing. He was going to become that. _Nothing,_ he thought vaguely, shouldn't be a state of being.

"You should have made the deal."

------------

TBC…


	8. I find it hard to tell you

Mad World

Chapter Eight: I find it hard to tell you

Dean had known something was up.

Partly because he'd known Sam his whole life, because his brother had always been his responsibility, because he'd been trained to, told to, constantly reminded to and automatically always, looked after Sammy; paid him more mind than anyone else in the whole fucking world.

But mostly because Sam hadn't even been trying to hide his abnormal behavior; not really. He'd been taking risks he'd never take normally, making off-putting comments about life in general. Dean would catch his brother staring at him, when Sam didn't think he was paying attention, like he was trying to memorize every one of his features, down to the last detail.

That in itself would have been creepy, had the look in his eyes not been so primal, so faraway. He looked at Dean like he would never see the older man again, and that had started to scare him.

At first he'd thought it was just a reaction to dad's death, so he'd ignored it, because Dean thought that his little brother wanted to deal with his grief on his own. Which wasn't at all true -Dean _knew _Sam had wanted to talk about it. Only _he _hadn't, so he'd ignored it.

It wasn't about dad though, because had it been, Sam _would _be pushing it. He'd be trying to get Dean to talk to him; and be it by force or manipulation, Dean knew they would have had a chick flick moment by now, had that been his intention.

Yet they hadn't.

Then there were the nightmares.

Sam hadn't had nightmares…in a long time.

That's when the fear had started to grow.

Plus the comments. Random little comments he'd make about Stanford and his life at college. Even about Jessica. Things he'd always kept tightly under wraps were suddenly thrown randomly into conversations.

So yeah…Dean had known something was up.

He told himself he would confront it, and hell, had their lives not been so hectic, had new forms of grief and loss not popped up at every turn, maybe he would have by now. Maybe he wouldn't be sitting in the Impala with undeniable tears in his eyes and a shattered window. Wouldn't be fisting his brother's T-shirt like it was the only thing left anchoring them to reality. Maybe Sam wouldn't be staring somewhere over his shoulder with hollow eyes and that pain laced through his every movement.

But maybes were bullshit - and no one knew that better than Dean Winchester.

"_What?"_ He gasped, so not wanting to believe what he knew he'd just heard.

"You should have made the deal." Sam repeated, voice as hollow as his eyes, still not looking at him. "It would have worked out great. You would've had dad. You wouldn't have been alone."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Dean bit, because now it was _his_ anger that was dangerously close to overflowing and drowning them both.

"You should have made the deal." That's when Dean let go of Sam, unclenched his fist fast and pulled his arm back, pushing himself away.

"You're possessed." He accused. "You're the demon."

"Yeah," Sam snorted, and it seemed all his anger was gone. "That would explain everything, wouldn't it?"

"Cristo," Dean whispered desperately, but Sam just looked at him, meeting his eyes for the first time in too long.

They were the same brown eyes that Dean had grown up with, looked into nearly every day of his life for the past twenty-three years. A little harder, deeper than they should be, holding too much - but they were Sam's. They were his little brother's.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" He snapped then, because anger he could deal with; whatever this was, whatever emo shit Sam had on his mind- he believed it could be dealt with like this. "Seriously. You've been acting different for weeks, all messed up. Trigger happy, saying crap you think I don't notice you say," Dean tilted his head, trying to catch his brother's gaze again. "I noticed, Sam. Okay? I noticed. So what is it? What are you hiding?"

Sam just shook his head; he'd gone back to not looking at him.

"You say I should have made the deal," the words cut Dean to the quick, but he forced them out. "You said what? That I wouldn't be alone?" He shook his head and set his jaw, his next words probably the most painful he would ever utter. "Are you planning on offing yourself?"

"What?" Sam's eyes met his fast, and he looked honestly taken aback.

Dean prayed his brother wasn't that good of an actor.

"Are you?" Somehow there was even _more _anger there. "You gonna shoot yourself? Slice your wrists? Pop one too many painkillers? Maybe just piss off the wrong spirit, huh? Not move quick enough? Maybe that'll be easier, pretend you didn't want it to happen?"

"Dean-"

"Or maybe you'll get really fucking creative and go in a fire," he'd never spoken words so harsh, never gotten so close to the core of their worst fears. Never been so terrified. But never before had he questioned Sam's mental stability. Slicing away at the flesh and bones of them, it seemed the only way to reach him. "Crappy motel room one night while I'm out? Haunted house?" He couldn't see his brother through the tears. "C'mon, Sam!" He shouted. "What was your plan?"

"You really think I'd do that to you?" It sounded like Sam was crying now too.

"Sure as fuck sounds like it, doesn't it?"

Dean's heart broke - a feat he didn't think it could manage anymore - when Sam just sniffled and said, "Yeah, I guess it does."

"I can't fucking believe you-" Dean started but he didn't get too far.

"I'm dying."

A beat of silence passed. Then another. Then the elder man dared let himself be almost, a little less terrified. "What?" There was hope in the word - beautiful, inspiring, relieving, life-altering hope.

"Dean," Sam said hoarsely, swallowing thickly. "I'm dying."

"What the hell are you talking about, little brother?" Confusion was better than anger. Doubt was a goldmine compared to hopelessness.

Sam took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and whispered in that pained way he had, "You remember Hallie Morgan?"

* * *

It took Sam nearly half an hour to tell the whole story - everything Hallie had told him, everything he'd been hiding - but it felt longer than that. A lifetime passed since Dean accused him of being suicidal. Empires could have fallen in the time it took Sam to get all the words out. An eternity or two could have started and stopped again.

When he was finally done, he held his breath, not knowing how Dean would respond. Given his outburst earlier, he figured anger was a definite possibility. Fear, shock, tears maybe, even. God knows they'd gone there tonight already.

"A brain tumor?" Dean finally echoed the words - the fate. He said it disbelievingly, though, and Sam treaded lightly.

"Yeah," he sighed. "Look, man, I'm sorry I didn't tell you. Just… with dad and everything you've been dealing with… I thought it'd be too much."

"You've been lying to me-" Dean sounded calm, which was more frightening than anger. "About… I mean, you've been walking around thinking you have a brain tumor?"

"I _do _have a brain tumor," Sam repeated. Something about saying that so many times in the last thirty minutes - it had made him sort of immune to the reality of it.

"And you didn't tell me?"

"I'm sorry." He repeated, meaning it with all his heart. "I was going to."

"You should have told me that night," Dean snapped. "Shit, Sammy, I thought you outgrew sneaking out of motel rooms when you were fifteen."

The younger sibling let a smile ghost over his features for a brief moment, taking him away from what was really going on. He'd been doing that a lot lately - escaping actuality. "I just thought-"

"What?" His brother was angry. Incredibly angry. Sam couldn't help but think that Dean was using that emotion to deter the inevitable. "What were you thinking? 'Cause it sounds to me like you _weren't_ thinking. At all."

"I thought I was protecting you," Sam finished, emotion filling his words to their breaking point.

"Sammy," Dean sighed, closing his eyes for a moment and running a hand over them. "That's my job."

Silence echoed in the space between them. Sam bit his lip and looked out the window.

After enough time had gone by, and the realization that Dean would say nothing more until he responded struck, Sam breathed deep and whispered, "I know." A beat. "I'm sorry."

"Good." Dean seemed at peace. "Good."

"So," Sam knew he shouldn't push it, and he also knew he had to. "You wanna talk about it?"

"About what?" His brother's voice was back to normal, and Sam guessed they'd taken off from anger and were now on a crash course for denial.

"I'm dying."

Dean actually snorted. "No you're not."

"Look," Sam sighed, "I didn't want to believe it either. Hell, I'm not sure I completely _do _believe it yet. But I am dying, and we-"

"Stop it, Sam." Dean was shaking his head.

The younger man knew he should be sensitive to his brother, knew he should placate Dean in whatever method he wanted to adopt for dealing with this; but acting on knowledge like that had never been Sam's strong suit, and quite frankly, he'd been waiting almost a month to let this secret spill. Now that he had, all he really wanted, was for Dean to step up and act the part of his big brother, just as he always had.

So he snapped, "Why? Why should I stop? It's the truth."

"Sammy," Dean huffed. "You're sitting there talking about having a fucking brain tumor."

"Because I _do _have a brain tumor," he said slowly, "Because I'm dying."

"No you're not."

His brother's voice was so firm, so sure, that Sam almost actually believed him.

"Yeah, Dean," he hated having to say this. Really fucking _hated_ having to defend the fact that he was going to die. "I am."

"Hallie Morgan was a nut," Dean waved a hand and dismissed the girl's claims. "C'mon, only you would fall for that, geek boy."

"It fits."

"It's crap." Dean bit back. "We shouldn't have listened to Ash in the first place. The mullet creates a false sense of security where his reliability is concerned."

"Maybe," Sam had to give, "But I went to a hospital, man. I had the test done, the doctor told me."

"They did the test wrong," the elder man said simply, shrugging. Sam was starting to worry that there was nothing he could say to get Dean to accept this. The worry increased tenfold when his brother started ranting. "You know how many false-positive tests get pawned off as the truth every year?" He shook his head. "It's a borderline conspiracy."

"They did the test twice."

"Exactly," the word was fused with triumph. "And I bet they charged you for it, huh?"

"Well, not _me_," Sam mumbled, not at all sure how to deal with his brother at this point.

"You know what I mean," he dismissed, "I bet, if you'd a hung around, they woulda tried to convince you to spend thousands of dollars on diffrent medicines, charged you more to stay in the hospital when their meds started to make you sick. And then, after months, or even years, when nothing was working, they'd decide to re-test you, and bam-" he clapped his hands together, making Sam jump slightly, "You're all better, and their pushing you out the door with a lollipop and a million dollar bill."

Sam's face remained set, Dean's rant, far from making him feel better, had simply lodged a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was sad.

"What if the test wasn't wrong?"

"It was," Dean scoffed, but didn't quite sound like he meant it all the way.

"What if I am dying?" He forced the words, not sure if he really wanted to.

"We're all dying, Sammy." Dean pointed out.

"Yeah," he shook his head, agreeing, "But I-"

"_You're _gonna live until I say otherwise," His big brother cut off.

Sam reeled back, astonished disbelief falling over his face and invading his tone. "You're _ordering_ me to stay alive? To _not_ have a brain tumor?"

"I'm ordering you," Dean poked at his chest, "To stop talking about this shit."

Sam's eyebrows shot to his forehead and he couldn't help the small, disbelieving chuckle that escaped him.

"Now shut up," his brother straightened himself, and started the engine of the Impala, that familiar purr taking over the silence of the deserted road. "And start looking for a twenty-four hour repair place. 'Cause you're so paying for that window."

TBC...


	9. Children waiting

Mad World

Chapter Nine: Children waiting for the day they feel good

The nightmares were the worst.

For Dean, anyway. To not be able to offer any sort of solution or comfort - it was torture.

He was sure that for his baby brother, though, the headaches were probably the thing he could most do without.

"It's the tumor," Sam said weakly one night, about a week after the crossroads, a week after he'd finally confessed the truth. "They're symptoms of the tumor."

"You've got the flu or something," Dean had responded. "We should stay here for a while."

_Here _was a crappy motel about ten miles away from where he'd met the demon. About five miles away from where Sammy had supernaturally busted his window. The Impala sat in the parking lot, glass still shattered, much like the Winchester boys

---

"My funereal." Sam answered the question Dean wished he'd never asked.

"Oh," the elder man responded. He wanted to say something sarcastic about the dreams, something that would lighten the moment; but he just sat still and watched his little brother reach for his third aspirin of the morning.

He couldn't respond, and silence fell between them.

---

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered. "I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't want it to."

"Nothing happened." Dean swallowed thickly and kept his eyes locked to the ceiling, glad for once that it was night. "Everything's gonna be fine."

---

"How?" The faint wisp of the plea reached Dean just before Sam fell into a deep sleep.

So when he answered, he was making a promise to no one. To himself.

"I'm gonna fix it."

---

Dean wasn't stupid, wasn't blind, and certainly wasn't naive.

He knew Sam had told him the truth.

When he got down to the core of it, he knew the hospital hadn't mucked up his tests, either.

He saw it in his brother's face every time the younger man cringed. Every unexplained headache. Every time he zoned out of a conversation for no reason.

---

He knew his brother was dying.

---

Nine days into their stay at that motel, Sam started to feel better, and Dean deduced that using his other, unexplained psychic ability might have sparked the onslaught of symptoms.

If he thought hard about it, he could even remember the same thing happening last year after the incident with Max Miller. He'd just brushed it off then, labeling it a supernatural hangover.

The truth pierced his heart, and he began to accept what he knew he had to do.

---

On the eleventh night after Dean learned the truth about Sam's brain tumor - that's when he finally did it.

---

He fixed it.

---

"I don't understand what going to the doctor again will do," Sam griped; back to his usual, annoying self.

Dean just smirked. "It'll prove, once and for all, little brother, that you _don't _have a brain tumor."

"What are you going to do when you find out I do?" There was pain in his voice, unmasked and heartbreaking, but Dean held his head high.

"Not gonna happen."

---

It had been cold that night, unseasonably cold, and Dean had refused to turn on the heat, knowing it would be pointless with the shattered window.

So he'd shivered the whole way there.

---

"Mr. Rowland," the nurse behind the desk took his name - well, fake insurance card name- looking from Sam to Dean and back again. "What is it you'd like done?"

"A head scan thing," Dean answered for him, smiling flirtingly at the pretty woman, who rolled her eyes in response to the eldest Winchester's childish words.

"An M.R.I." Sam used the correct terminology, shooting his brother an almost hurt look.

Dean knew what he was thinking, but he couldn't help his good mood.

He was walking on water.

Mostly.

---

It hadn't taken him long to get there. He'd memorized the way the first time - eleven days ago.

Dean could always do that - it was one of the perks of spending his entire life driving around the country - he could get anywhere he'd been once already.

---

"I'll call you when the doctor's ready for you." The woman told them once the paperwork was filled out.

Nothing about the tumor he believed he had was on the sheet. Dean had told him it would only fuel the conspiracy.

Which, when he thought about it, was probably true.

---

He'd waited out in the cold for longer than he had last time.

He had just begun to worry about Sam waking up and finding him gone when she appeared.

---

"Samuel Rowland." A young Asian man stood before him, apearing fresh-faced and not yet jaded.

Sam looked up and nodded at the man before looking back to Dean, who responded with a nod of his own.

"I'll be here."

---

Sam sat on the edge of the hospital table, staring at the hands he'd placed in his lap.

Dean realized that, had he not already known this time would be different, it would probably be considered cruel to make his little brother relive this.

---

"Well, it was clear," the young doctor brushed in and told him like it was nothing.

Sam's jaw dropped as his head snapped up.

Dean breathed a deep sigh of relief.

"Clear?" The younger man repeated. "Like…nothing was wrong? At all?"

"Were you expecting there to be?" The Asian man asked concernedly.

"'Course not, doc." Dean spoke up, turning to his brother. "Told ya."

---

She had stared at him with yellow eyes. The same yellow eyes that Dean had met so many times before.

"You would choose him? Over-" She had started, but the elder hunter simply hadn't been in the mood for Demon dramatics.

"Just do it."

---

"You're in perfect health.

---

"I don't get it, Dean."

Hours later, after numerous conversations and contemplations, Sam was still at a loss.

"I told you, dude," the elder man shook his head and ran a hand over the Impala's new window, assessing the job done by the men at the repair shop who had tinkered with his baby. "Some doctors are just quacks."

"But-"

"Just let it go, man." Dean interrupted, looking up, over the roof of the car. "It's a good thing."

For a few long seconds, Dean held his breath, thinking that his brother may know. Might call him on what he'd done.

Finally, though, Sam just looked down and half-smiled a sad smile. "Yeah," he agreed. "I guess it is."

---

Just over fifteen miles away, a seductively beautiful woman stood at the base of a water tower. Long blonde hair blowing about in the cold night air, looking so mystical and mesmerizing that it almost distracted from her eyes, flashing bright yellow though the dark.

She took a single step forward, placing a red-fingered hand in the structure, nails scratching at the wood. She darted out her tongue and licked her lips slowly, not wanting to forget.

The taste of the eldest Winchester was still there and potent.

Breathlessly, remembering what had been done, what he had accomplished, she whispered her triumph into the night, knowing it was monumental.

"Gotcha."

End.

* * *

A/N: This is the ending I've been envisioning pretty much since I started writing this, and I'm sorry if it's not exactly what you were expecting. But I have to say, quite a few of the reviews I got after the last chapter asked, 'Now, how's Dean gonna fix it?' And that was exactly the thought process I was following with this.

I'm not gonna defend it anymore than that, but I'd love to know what you thought.


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